


Like An Eagle In A Dove-Cote

by mymotheristherepublic



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymotheristherepublic/pseuds/mymotheristherepublic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is hard to separate the warrior from the man. Or maybe one has never existed without the other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like An Eagle In A Dove-Cote

I.

He was young once, and you were young too. So remember the days when you were, when you kissed the sweat from his brow and cleaned the blood from his wounds before that sweat and that blood was shed against your brethren. Remember when he made foolish promises. Remember when he still wanted something more than Rome. There was a time when his sword was still wooden and his skin was still pale and smooth and the foremost thing on your mind wasn’t your knife (or your mouth) at his throat. Because it’s only going to be one way, isn’t it? Don’t ever decide which you want more.

II.

He wears you in the blood running down his face, and he carries you in the scars that crisscross his chest, and he still hasn’t let go, has he? Tear him apart in ways you never wanted to. Let him go home with your blade still stinging in his limbs and unable to wash you out of the harsh edges of his jaw or the stark jut of his collar or the strangely soft curve of the inside of his leg. He will call you a coward. You are. You have not let go either.

III.

Mean the words you say to him when he offers his neck to your sword. Invite him to your table when your household is watching and to your bed when they aren’t. Kiss the scars you left on him. He wears them for Rome, for his mother, but imagine for just one lucid instance that he has done anything for your sake and let him find himself again in the bend of your back, the shortness of your breaths before he interrupts them. If he no longer has Rome, he must have something. Never pretend you didn't want him dead. There is a certain quiver in his skin when you tell him you could have taken his offer. But then again, don't pretend you don't melt into his rent flesh when he tells you how many men's blood was on his sword that day.

IV.

It is hard to separate the warrior from the man. Or maybe one has never existed without the other. His arms are always tensed with the weight of steel, as if your body were his shield and your nails were arrows it didn't catch. He dreams of the seven hills he can no longer call home. You dream (no, not dream) of the day he feels them calling again. It will come. But for now you keep him bound here by the straps of his own armor. He is yours until he is not, and then he will be Rome's, even if it will kill him more cruelly than you ever could.

V.

Perhaps you will kill him more cruelly than Rome. Perhaps you will not even show him the mercy the city that exiled him would. It is not his choice. He relinquished that choice when he took your hand, swore his fidelity, stole your breath and your heart and what tenderness had not already been cut out of you with the edge of his sword. Take the same knife and accept his offer. Let your hands grow slick and scarlet at his throat. Cut short his last denial, his last cry for justice. Do not let him beg. Make sure his scream is so loud it almost sounds like an apology.


End file.
